La grippe

     Being sick in an unfamiliar place is never fun but a fever of 101 degrees in Sub-Saharan Africa was really pushing it for me. As I lay in my bed sweating and aching, my malaise acted as a lightening rod for feelings of homesickness and culture shock.
Normally the momentum of my day to day activities keeps me from dwelling on any longing for home but damned if the flu didn't give me time to reflect. My fevered brain swiftly calculated the enormity of the distance and great lengths of the time that stand between me and my life as it used to be. My heart dropped toward my stomach and my breathing shallowed as I felt crushed by the unfamiliar sounds of a neighborhood I barely know, the smells of a city still foreign to me, the demands of languages I cannot quite grasp, the incessant bleating of that acursed sheep. 

     But wait, what was that? A voice cooed outside my door, interrupting my decent into madness. It was my Maman come to check on me. She leaned close to me and placed her hand on my forehead in that comforting way that mothers across the world do. "Cherie," she murmured as she handed me my dinner. "Eat this, then go to sleep."

     Granted this was not the hand that had always soothed my brow in the past and this was not the meal normally touted to me for its curative effects but they were welcome nonetheless. Thus comforted, I tried to drift off to sleep reflecting on how while this new Senegalese life of mine is far from the life I left back in the States it is full of vignettes of absolute beauty and grandeur. 

There have been so many moments like the one where Maman cupped my head where I have been humbled by the fortuitousness of this whole adventure, how lucky I am to be here at all. These moments banish any unhappiness and act as my lighthouse in a storm, guiding me back to why I'm here, why I want to be here. 

There are the nights I wiled away in a river delta with new and fast friends staring up into a night sky with more stars than any expanse has a right to hold. 

There are juicy mangoes cut open with a trusty pocket knife and shared.

Also beers enjoyed on calm nights in a beach bar so close to the ocean that the waves lapped the front steps. 

Laughes had at our own expense as we Americans struggle to fit in here. (How do you flush the toilet? Where am I supposed to hang my underwear to dry? How come no one in my family can keep a shirt on?  No seriously, HOW do you flush the toilet?)

An afternoon happily spent indulging at a patisserie tucked in a corner of a quiet neighborhood. 

Chilled pineapple soda enjoyed at the edge of a warm salt water lake.

The call to prayer echoing off of buildings glowing with the rich light of sunset.

A perhaps disproportional sense of accomplishment from purchasing anything from a market for less than an arm and a leg.

Sugar coated peanuts from road side stands.

Eating three bags of said sugar coated peanuts.

Exhilarating rides on impossibley colorful car rapids through dynamic and quirky Dakar.

Standing completely and gloriously muddy in a mangrove forest.

The gratifying realization that public health, and the challenges it faces here, is really and truly my calling and something that lights a fire in me. 

Cool evenings on city roof tops.

A cab driver who asks how many years I've been in Dakar.

The joy of sharing my adventures with friends and family at home.

Being away for a weekend and having my return to this house in Mermoz feel not just a little like coming home. 

I strongly suspect that once I am home I will visit these memories in the same way that I visit memories of Happy Valley now, that I will touch the souvenirs I bring back with me in the same way that I worry with the sentimental charms I wear around my neck here. These moments will become the comforting memories of an old life in a far away land.

And that is the thought that finally let me fall into the welcome arms of sleep.